Fire By Night
by free-pirate
Summary: Sam called for the doctor. Two days later, the doctor called the institution. Full summary will not fit in the little box. Crazy!fic, character death and mature themes. Slash.
1. Prologue

**Author's Notes:** Um, okay, so. This may or may not be your run-of-the-mill insanity!fic. I don't read them all that much, though the couple that I've read have been awesome. This wouldn't exist without a few very special people: Trini, for not only the bunny, but general handholding and cheerleading and listening to my endless ranting. I about went crazy writing this one. :S ulysses3_de LJ for the charming beta and the help shaping this into something readable. Hope you get well soon! 3 Other than that, this is pretty... dark, but I think I've got more pride for this than just about anything I've done before. So yay!  
**Author's Notes Redux:** Trini asks me to note that this was plotted, discussed, and written months before the promo for 5.11 was aired; therefore, there is nothing remotely canon about it.

Not mine, I just like to play.

_**Beware!**_ This fic contains mature themes and character death. If you don't think you can handle it, you don't have to handle it. Nothing terribly explicit, so don't worry about that.

It was cloudy and dark the day Sam finally swallowed his pride and called his father.

The room he'd rented seemed to echo his words back at him. His voice was too loud in the silence; the neighbors arguing next door was the only other sound as he told his father about his girlfriend's death.

In the pause that followed, the beating of his heart swallowed even the muffled insults filtering through the thin wall.

"I'm sorry, son," was the first answer he got. The next, after another silence, "Are you coming home?" To-the-point. A trait that Sam had always loathed in his father suddenly seemed a little less horrible. He didn't have to ask, now. Didn't have to beg to be accepted back into the family.

"Yeah," he said, voice breaking. Something heavy lodged in his throat. "Yeah, I think I am."

He didn't tell Dad about the bus ticket already laying on the motel dresser.

The call ended almost five minutes later, and when Sam looks at the elapsed time displayed on his cell's screen, he finds it remarkably ironic that it didn't take longer.

Days later, when he stumbled off the bus smelling like week-old roadkill, the first thing he spotted in the station's overcrowded parking lot was the sun reflecting off the hood of Dean's car. The edge of excitement he'd felt as the bus made its way over state line after state line was slowly replaced by a creeping anxiousness that made him hesitate.

The driver was handing him his luggage out of the bus's cargo hatch, and he didn't have anywhere else to go, so he forced his legs to move in the Impala's general direction.

He threw his bags into the backseat when he got close enough and climbed into the front, carefully watching the other passengers through the windshield.

After everyone is gone, they stay like this. Sam watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, unable to not do so, and felt the full brunt of their history stretched out between them on the seat.

"Dude," Dean said, wrinkling his nose and making Sam jump with the suddenness. "You _reek_."

Things aren't comfortable, but they aren't uncomfortable, either. Sam could live with that. Hell, he probably deserved it.

He wished Dad had come to get him instead; that way, he wouldn't have to dread their reunion whole ride home. Sam didn't know what his father will do. Last time they'd seen each other, he'd literally kicked Sam out of the house.

"You're worried about Dad." It wasn't a question. Dean, perceptive as always, was able to tell what Sam was feeling without taking his eyes off the road. The fact that he wass still so readable made him ache a little. He'd thought he'd changed. He'd though that the person he was four years ago wasn't alive anymore, but Dean proved him wrong, always more aware of Sam than Sam was of himself.

He sighed, "A little."

"He's not going to be home for another three hours, so relax. He's not mad." He added as an afterthought, "He hasn't been mad at you for a long time."

Sam didn't say anything. He'd cross that bridge when he got there, but in the state he's in, he'd probably let Dad get away with saying anything he wanted. Up to now, he'd been staving off the impending anvil that Jess' death was going to drop. Now that he was home, just a little safer despite the hostile waters, he could let it fall on him.

Sooner than he liked, they were pulling into the driveway. Dean hit the automatic garage door opener and pulled the Impala into the cool, musty dark. Sam sat there for a little longer than was probably necessary before getting his bags and meeting Dean at the door that connected to the house.

Almost nothing had changed. Even the curtains were the same, and now that Sam thought about it, they'd been the same for as long as he could remember. Instead of fighting the homesickness like he expected, this urges it on. Sighing, he climbed the narrow stairs and found his room.

Nothing here had changed, either. Dean followed him up, and just as Sam was settling his bags on the familiar lumpy mattress, he spoke. Softly, almost uncharacteristically soft, barely more than a whisper.

"Welcome home, little brother." He didn't look up from the spot he'd been eyeing on the carpet, but the sincerity of the words made Sam's chest seize.

The first hour was uncomfortable. Dean didn't know what to do with himself, whether to follow Sam around like a lost puppy or go about his business as normal. Sam could have unpacked, but he didn't feel up to it. Anything else left his hands free and his mind wandering, so he fidgeted.

Dean noticed the silence for what it was, but didn't bring it up. Instead, he found a ratty deck of cards and ribbed Sam until he agreed to play just to shut Dean up. He was reminded, as he gathered his hand from the space just in front of him where Dean's been dealing, of middle school. Of nights, after homework was finished, when he and his brother would occupy themselves with a deck of cards. This same one, probably.

Afterwards, when he went to college (ran away), he'd still keep a deck handy. Not to play with, but just to shuffle. To keep his hands busy.

Sam always had to have his hands busy.

For the next hour and a half, he was so absorbed in beating Dean (and ignoring the way he gloats when he's winning) that he temporarily forgot his nerves. Until just about fifteen minutes before Dad was supposed to be home, Sam was lost in a haze of mild happiness, feeling lighter than he'd been in a while.

And then he looked at the clock.

When they actually get to the meeting, it wasn't half as bad as he'd expected. He thought at the very least they'd have a yelling match, and worse-case scenario he'd get his ass kicked. But when John got there, he took one look at his son and drew him into a hug that knocked the wind out of him. Sam was so surprised that, at first, he didn't react.

They ordered pizza and sat around the dining room table that'd always been set for four, talking about nothing. The silence wasn't deafening; it wasn't awkward. They were all lost in their own thoughts and, for once, the companionable silence was welcome.

The days continued in much the same way; Sam allowed himself to think for what feels like the first time in forever. He sat up in his room, perched on the lumpy mattress that he used to hate so much, and thought about Jess.

If what emerged from the room afterwards didn't look quite as sane as it did when it went in, Dad and Dean didn't comment. Sam was grateful for their silence.

The weekend approached rapidly. Dad owned partial share in a garage downtown, and he and his business partner were discussing the relative merits of either giving Dean his own share of the garage or at least leaving it to him. The two of them alternated days, so one of them was always there to watch over things.

The first day Dean was off, Dad worked late. Sam didn't have anything better to do, hadn't been out of the house (hadn't even been out in their own attached garage) since he arrived, so Dean dragged him away to one of his favorite local hunts. Sam remembered it, in a vague way, but he'd never actually been inside.

For every round Dean bought, he offered Sam one; Sam always refused. He didn't want to remember how it felt to be numb, less tormented, afraid he'd get used to the feeling. Though he knew neither his father nor his brother would let him drink himself into a stupor just to forget, he didn't want to give them the opportunity to refuse him. He did it himself.

It's how he ended up the designated driver. Dean hadn't had enough to be drunk and wasn't sober enough to be trusted with any sort of machinery, so Sam drove them home and hauled his brother up to bed. It felt good to take care of someone again, even if the roles were reversed. Like he was actually needed and didn't just exist in the grey space.

Dean didn't need much help, but it's the general idea. He flopped down onto his bed and rolled over, grasping the hem of his t-shirt and wriggling it up his torso. Sam half-sighed, too close to amusement to actually be exasperated, and stepped over to help him.

Once his shirt was off, flung to a dark corner of the room, Sam reached for the button on Dean's jeans. Common sense, really; he couldn't sleep in his clothes and Sam had to help him get them off. But his hands shook for some reason he couldn't explain, and before he managed to work the button out of the hole, Dean's hand was on his cheek.

"Sammy," he breathed, voice rough and torn around the edges. Sam looked up, fingers still fumbling with the clasp, and met Dean's hazy eyes.

"Yeah?" he asked, but before he got the word completely out, Dean was sitting up, threading his fingers through Sam's hair and yanking him forward. Before he could completely register what just happened (can you get drunk through osmosis?), Dean's mouth was on his.

Sloppy, wet. Completely uncoordinated, and Sam jerked away. "Dean-"

"Don't leave," Dean said, moistening his lips, making them ridiculously wet and shining. "Please, Sam. Don't leave. Missed you so much."

He couldn't move away in time. Dean was kissing him, and a moment later he realized that he was kissing back. He'd imagined, back when he actually allowed himself to imagine, that kissing Dean would be like fighting, like a battle of wills that can't be settled with words. Instead, it was gentle, so gentle it hurt. It felt like Dean was tearing out every emotion Sam had ever repressed, pulling them out just to use them against him, making him fight back twice as hard just to understand how he felt.

He tasted like alcohol and smoke, and Sam'd never been as homesick as he was in that moment.

After what felt like hours, days, he realized he couldn't breathe and pulled back. Dean's eyes were closed, insanely long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Sam realized he was crying only when the whuff of his brother's alcohol-scented breath hit his face, icy where it ghosted over the wet of his tear-tracks.

Dean's eyes cracked open slowly, brilliant green filled fit to bursting, and Sam didn't stop him. He should have, but he didn't, and that's where it all went to hell.

~

Three days later, they still hadn't spoken about it. It was a tangible presence in the room, between them no matter how far apart they were. They spoke around it, wedged in the space that wasn't consumed by it.

Sam couldn't breathe sometimes with the weight of what they'd done on his lungs.

The plumbing in the kitchen sink was stopped up, and Sam went out to meet Dean in the garage to tell him as soon as he heard the door open. Dean was dirty, greased from head to toe, stains all over his clothes, in his hair, and he didn't acknowledge Sam's presence before he'd shut the Impala's door and was kissing the life out of him.

It was another few seconds before Sam's brain caught up with the sense-memory of Dean's hands on him. By then, he'd come to his sense and braced his hands on Dean's chest; he pushed as hard as he could, only managed to send Dean stumbling back a few steps.

"Stop, okay? I… we can't do this. I can't do this. This isn't even what you want." His stupid voice broke on the last syllable. It wasn't what he wanted, either. Even if it was, he couldn't have it. It wasn't fair to Dean, not fair to him, not fair to Jess. "It's not right. I don't…" And he's never been good at lying, but he honestly tried this time, because it was spinning out of his control faster than he could grasp it. "I don't need you like that."

His lungs constricted painfully. He was crying again, fidgeting, twisting his hands together like that'd make it better.

But all Sam could hear were his own words impacting the air, lies that sounded so believing he'd even fooled himself. I don't need you.

When he looked up again, went to look Dean in the eye, his expression was no longer shocked. Stoic, strong again. Unaffected.

At least until he got to his brother's eyes. The brilliant green is fractured, so many cracks shone through with golden flecks of light.

"Dean?"

He wanted Dean to yell, to punch him, to… do anything. Instead, he just stood there, broken into so many pieces; unfixable. It happened to fast, but with the force of his words alone, Sam'd done something.

He tried again and again, called his brother's name, even resorted to punching him. But Dean never spoke, stayed emotionless and staring straight ahead.

Sam called Dad, because he didn't know what else to do. When he got there, he tried the same techniques to get Dean to respond but nothing worked. They called an ambulance, and, seven hours and twenty discarded coffee cups later, Dean finally spoke.

"Sam?" he asked, and Sam breathed for the first time all day.

"I'm here," he answered, moving to the side of the bed and grasping his brother's hand. 'I'm here."

Dad isn't, but Sam could deal with that later.

"Sam, don't worry. We'll get the Demon. When we find the bastard, I'm going to kill him."

Sam was stunned speechless for a moment, running over the words in his mind again and again, trying to get them to make sense any other way.

Sam called for the doctor.

Two days later, they were calling the institution.


	2. Part One

"So you're sure it's a Woman in White, then?" Dean takes another fork-sized piece of the steaming apple pie in front of him and raises it to his mouth. He looks up at Sam before biting into it, but Sam isn't paying attention. He's eyeing the manila folder between them on the checkered tablecloth, simultaneously inching his fingers between the sheaves of card-stock and pulling them away. He doesn't want to know what's inside, maybe.

Dean frowns and catches Sam's gaze, waits until he's not going to look away and deliberately places the metal prongs of the fork on his tongue, closing his lips around the stem. Slowly, he pulls it back out again, chasing the last bits of pie and licking the metal clean. He watches Sam's gaze turn from weary resignation to something darker.

Grinning, he drops his eyes and goes back to work on his pie. "Woman in White?" he insists after a moment; he can still feel Sam's gaze on him, distracted from both the question and his unease.

Sam clears his throat. "Yeah," he flips the manila folder open, "She killed her kids--"

But before he can finish, the waitress approaches. Her crisp white uniform is as unassuming as ever, down to the pristine white sneakers she wears. "Mr. Winchester?" she asks politely, from a safe distance away. Her clipped accent immediately grinds on Dean's nerves. "I'm sorry; visiting hours are over."

Dean squints to see the name on the shiny badge adorning her chest, but can't make out a name. "Just a few more minutes?" he gives her one of his best grins, but she just smiles and shakes her head. When she smiles, all of her teeth are visible. Like a shark.

"I'm sorry, Dean. It's our policy. Your brother can come back tomorrow," she adds, looking at Sam. He nods, reaches over the manila folder for Dean's hand and squeezes it briefly.

"Yeah, man. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" He frowns a little as he stands up. Dean squeezes back, worried, and watches as Sam and the waitress disappear out the diner door.

He stares down at his empty plate, fork laying abandoned up near the case file, and watches the sun slowly fade through the slats in the blinds.

*

The new patient was on the fourth floor. It was the 'safe' floor for patients that weren't physically dangerous and Dr. Singer loved to have cases there. It was a welcome respite in a field where respites didn't come often.

He'd picked up the new chart that morning, hours before his first appointment with the patient was scheduled. Not that it was a very strict schedule, but the nurses liked to keep things running smoothly. He'd studied it all through breakfast and the hour afterward in his office, feet propped on his desk as he made notes in a small pad he kept in the top drawer.

When he believed he was ready, Dr. Singer took the chart and the notepad and headed up to room 4E. He knocked twice on the door, standard procedure, and entered the room fully confident that he was equipped to handle whatever Dean Winchester could throw at him.

The patient was staring out the window and didn't look up as he entered. He didn't look up until the doctor pulled up the plastic visitor's chair and cleared his throat, crossing his legs and balancing the notepad on his knee. When he did turn, his gaze was mild. "Morning, doctor," he said, pleasantly, and Dr. Singer smiled in return.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Winchester?"

He shrugged, rolling his shoulders beneath the thin cotton of the uniform white t-shirt. "'m fine." But he offered no more than that. Dr. Singer immediately set to work cracking his exterior.

"So, can you explain to me why you believe you were brought to be with us?" He leaned back in the chair, transferring the notepad to the spotless tabletop and pulling a pen out of his vest's breast pocket.

"I didn't catch your name," the patient said, callously.

"Doctor Singer, but you can call me Bobby," the doctor said, smiling. "I apologize; I suppose we haven't been formally introduced." He stuck out his hand, inviting the patient to trust him.

"Dean," the patient returned, clasping his hand briefly before dropping it back to the mattress beside him. He dropped his gaze to the black and white checkered tile. "I was brought here because they don't believe me."

"What don't they believe you about?"

"They think - I don't know what they think, but I saw it with my own eyes. I lived it. I think I know what I'm talking about." Indignation colored his voice and tightened his jaw. Bobby nonchalantly made notes. "Nobody believes me but Sam," he added flatly, all emotion gone.

"I see. What is it that they don't believe? If you tell me, maybe I can convince them."

Dean snorted. "Good luck with that."

Bobby waited a few moments.

"I believe," Dean started, settling himself more comfortably on the thin mattress, "that my mother was killed by a demon when I was four."

That wasn't in the charts. The doctor scribbled quickly. "And?" He prompted.

"She was pinned to the ceiling with her stomach slashed open. There was fire, and then..." he took a deep breath, cleared his throat. "My Dad gave me my brother and told me to run."

"Your brother Sam?" Bobby remembered reading the name on the chart and on the visitor application.

"Yeah." Dean stood, paced like a caged animal for a moment, and then settled down again.

The doctor knew there was more to this story. He fixed his gaze on his patient, warm and knowing, and put his pen down. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About what? I haven't even started yet." Dean made to stand up again, a slight twitch of one bare foot toward the floor, and obviously thought better of it.

"Then tell me. Everything. I want to know everything they don't believe."

*

Three hours and two additional notepads later, Doctor Singer rested his head in his hands briefly and drew a third from the inner pocked of his vest.

Dean looked at him, already building defenses for the inevitable disbelief, but it didn't come. Instead, Bobby stepped to the bed and sat next to him.

"I want you to take this, okay?" he held out the clean notepad. "Every time something happens that you know no one will believe, write it down for me."

Dean took the notepad and glanced down at the crisp front page. "I'm going to need more than this," he snorted. "But yeah, okay. I can do that for you. You've gotta tell me, though... you believe me. Don't you?"

Bobby smiled and stood. "Of course I do, Dean. That's why I want you to write it all down. I've got to go now; If I keep you any longer, you'll miss visiting hours."

Dean was instantly animated, full of more emotion than their whole talk had inspired. As the doctor gathered his things and left, one thought stuck to the forefront of the complicated jumble as he tried to process everything Dean had told him.

He had to talk to Sam.

*

He haunted the lobby for the remainder of the day, hoping to catch Sam Winchester as he left. Just as the sun was setting, he found him; it had to be, the way Dean described him. Tall and broad-shouldered, apparently the image of their father.

"Mr. Winchester," Bobby strode across the room and clapped a hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm Dean's doctor. I hoped I could steal some of your time?"

Sam looked confused for a moment, maybe a little distressed, but he nodded and followed the older man to his office. "What's changed?" He asked the moment they're inside with the door closed, concerned. Fearful.

"Nothing, as far as I can tell. Don't worry." Bobby smiled his reassuring smile. Perhaps he'd spent too much time around sick people; it was a bit of a habit. "I just wanted to ask you about the things he believes have happened in your lives."

"Oh." Sam sounded relieved and sunk into one of the chairs in front of the doctor's desk. "It's not true, any of it. I don't know why he believes it happened."

"Well, that's part of what I wanted to ask you. Before we get in to that, I was wondering if you noticed exactly when he started to... fabricate things."

Sam shifted. "About two weeks ago. He started asking me about things I'd never heard about. Why?"

"Is there anything that happened two weeks ago that could have triggered it? Sometimes... well, considering your mother. These things are progressive, and usually some sort of emotional upheaval can start it. Sort of like a switch being flipped. Anything like that happen two weeks ago?"

"... no, I can't say for sure," Sam glanced to the side, fingers tapping incessantly on the arms of the chair. "There's nothing. He was fine one day and a 'demon hunter' the next."

"I see." Bobby made note on the chart, never taking his eyes from Sam. "You've heard all of what he's said, I trust? Starting at the beginning, with your mother. I need to draw comparison from the actual course of events to what he believes happened so I can detect exactly how much he's getting from fact. If you feel up to it, would you like to tell me?"

"Uh, sure." Sam licked his lips briefly and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "My mother hung herself when I was six months old."

*

Sam started out into the night some time later. The slight breeze felt good on his face after spending the whole day inside, and he stepped out of the doorway to lean against the stucco of the building's exterior. Hands jammed in his pockets, legs stretched out before him, he leaned his head back and just breathed for a moment.

In the few weeks prior, he hadn't had much time to himself. If he wasn't here visiting Dean, making arrangements with doctors about treatment and payment and a host of other things, his father was pulling him into the tiny office beside the downtown garage to settle the book-keeping. Keeping him busy.

He hadn't had much time to think about it, which was a blessing in disguise.

Sam knew it wasn't his fault that his brother was like this. In an abstract way, he knew it wasn't anyone's fault. But the guilt constantly gnawing away at him told him otherwise.

Dean had always been slightly more unhinged than other people. It was just another aspect of his personality, something Sam had grown used to because Dean had never been any other way. The watered-down version resting inside the building behind him was a heart-wrenching contrast to how carefree Dean used to be.

Sam drew in a shaky breath and pushed off from the wall. He wouldn't cry; he had to get home before John got too worried. Besides, he had a phone call to make.

*

After waving off John's persistent questions about how the visit went and why he was home so late, Sam took the stairs two at a time and secured himself in the small bedroom he'd recently moved back to.

He hadn't bothered taking down the old decorations that still lingered from before he'd left for college. It wasn't that he didn't have the time, because John mostly left him alone when he got home on the weekends; he just didn't care what the space he slept in looked like. Like this, with the same posters adorning the walls, with the same photos on the nightstand – he hardly looked at them anymore, but they were constant, stalwart reminders.

Of before, when Dean was happy and at least sane.

But Sam liked it that way, so he left it. His gaze lingered over the family photos as he pulled out the phone hidden in one of his dresser drawers and dialed in the number he'd memorized.

"Evening, Sam," a familiar, high-pitched female voice answered. "He's been waiting."

"Sorry," he apologized somewhat guilty, rubbing at the back of his neck even though the nurse on the other end couldn't see him. "Thanks, Missouri."

"No problem at all." The connection clicked over before he detected the smile in her voice, and then it was Dean on the line.

Sam settled back into the mattress and relaxed little by little at the sound of his brother's voice.

*

The routine became familiar quickly. During the week, Sam would call after hours and Missouri would let him speak to Dean. On the weekends, he stayed as long as possible and called when he got home. If any of the staff thought it odd, they didn't comment, and Missouri promised not to tell anyone about his calls. It would get them all in trouble, but she pretended not to care.

If Dean wasn't getting any better, at least he wasn't getting any worse.

*

Sam waited at the nurse's station for the usual nurse to come and collect him. Nurse Talbot - Sam didn't know her first name, and didn't want to ask - escorted him to 4E every weekend morning and came to retrieve him at seven, when hours were over. Because of Dean's schedule, no one really bothered them except at lunchtime, which Sam was grateful for.

She was a little late that morning, flustered by the time she got to Sam, and more than a little clipped when she gave him the usual speech about procedure. But as soon as the door closed behind her and her heeled footsteps receded down the hall, he slid the lock into place and turned to face the room.

Dean watched him closely from his perch on the small cot against the wall. Sam remained standing awkwardly in front of the door, waiting for Dean to speak; he almost wanted to sink backwards into the wood grain and not have to face this. It was a familiar reaction to seeing Dean, so small in comparison to the overwhelming presence he used to carry; Sam had to fight it every time he came to visit.

"Sammy," Dean finally breathed, seconds later, looked at Sam like he'd been waiting for years instead of days. Momentary tension broken, Sam stepped forward. By the time he reached the middle of the room, Dean had stood and moved to meet him.

They were close enough to be breathing the other's recycled air, close enough that Dean barely had to extend his hand to touch Sam's face. Fingertips rough from years of working in Dad's garage, skin somehow soft from the scant weeks spent in this place of sterility, they skimmed over Sam's forehead, down his cheek to grasp his chin.

"Missed you," Sam said, truthfully. Even if they had talked on the phone every night, it wasn't the same as having Dean there. He leaned into the touch on impulse, feeding the rough, hungry thing coming to life in his brother's eyes.

Dean cast a glance over Sam's shoulder. The door was locked, but if someone really wanted to get in...

Sam didn't like doing this here, of all places. Someone would eventually know, considering just about everything filtered down to the patients through higher powers. Observant higher powers who'd check the laundry three times over and suspect things when they came in to examine Dean.

They just wanted to take care of him and Sam often had to remind himself that this was true. If Sam had the same interests as the staff here, just to take care of his brother because he needed it, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have allowed this to happen.

But he did and would continue to do it on a fairly regular basis. It kept Dean happy, and it was the least Sam could do.

He pushed it to the back of his mind as Dean abandoned all pretense of restraint and tugged him down. Hands fisted in Sam's hair prevented him from pulling away, but he didn't want to. From the first touch of his brother's slightly chapped lips, he gave up and let himself be distracted.

*

They were dozing when lunchtime rolled around, and Dean started awake at the knock at the door. Sam mumbled something, buried his face in Dean's neck and tried to ignore it.

"Sam," Dean hissed in his ear. "Get up. The door's still locked."

At the second round of louder, slightly irritated pounding, Sam managed to disentangle himself, make himself look slightly more presentable, and get to the door before whoever it was called the doctor or something. He glanced back over his shoulder to see if Dean was equally presentable; he was slightly rumpled, smoothing out the sheets on the cot, so Sam slid the lock back as quietly as possible and flung the door open.

The woman standing there was at least a head shorter. Grey laced through her dark hair, and though Sam had only met her on one other occasion, her usually kind face was stony and annoyed. "About time," she muttered. "Boy's gotta eat. I'm just doing my job."

"I know," Sam stepped back out of the doorway, slow flush creeping its way up his neck. "We just got caught up. Talking."

"Uh-huh. Well, the cafeteria's open, if you want to grab something." She pushed past him, tray held out carefully in front of her. Sam caught Dean's gaze, thought about it for a minute, and decided he wasn't really that hungry.

*

Dean's empty tray lay between them. Sam sprawled across the foot of the cot, hunched against the window with his long legs thrown out over the edge, and Dean propped himself against the stark concrete wall. When Sam looked up, laughter trailing off from the edge of a joke Dean had made, the look in his brother's eyes was wrong. Distant, looking past Sam to something else entirely.

He'd gone again.

"So, did you take care of the Woman in White?" The seam between reality and the one Dean had created seemed blurrier this time. Easier to cross over. He had to remember to tell the doctor and ignore the sick feeling that came with discussing this with anyone that wasn't Dean.

Sam shuddered and ignored the way his stomach plummeted.

"Yeah, I. Yeah." He didn't know what else to say. He'd looked it up, but he could hardly remember what Dean had told him last time about how exactly he thought you got rid of a Woman in White. "You got anything else for us?"

Dean shook his head, picking at the napkin on his discarded tray. "I thought we could, you know. Lay low for a while."

Sam silently sent thanks to whoever was still listening. "Sure, man. We can do that."

*

After another week had passed, the doctor decided that Dean wasn't dangerous and he probably wasn't going to be, so the nurses started to allow him out of his room. On weekdays he was allowed to eat in the cafeteria; there were only a few other patients there, mostly doctors and nurses and visitors, and someone was always watching. No one really talked to him, which was at the same time perfect and frustrating. He wanted someone to talk to, yeah, but he was so happy to be out of the bright white of his room that there were times he didn't care.

The first day he ate there instead of alone, he didn't know what to do with himself. After three (four? he'd lost count) weeks of not being able to choose much of anything, the endless possibilities laid out before him in the form of cafeteria food were staggering. After spending longer than was probably healthy thinking about it, he gave up and chose the nearest thing that looked good.

As the weeks wore on (timed only by Sam's weekend visits), he was allowed to meet with other patients in a sort of rec room on the level below the cafeteria. It wasn't as exciting as Dean had always thought a rec room should be; just one TV set up in the corner, everyone stable enough to be momentarily trusted sitting on a couch, or chair. But it gave him a chance to talk to someone who wasn't his brother, and though that idea had been appalling to him at one time, he found himself in need of different human interaction.

Not that there was much to be found in the rec room.

He tried talking to them all, but never collected names. There wasn't a need for names, really. Not here. The guy in the corner who saw Jesus everywhere would always be there. And he never spoke in anything that wasn't a bible verse, so it wasn't like Dean would actually need to talk to him if he could help it.

The girl sitting on the floor in front of the television every day without fail, playing with her dolls, had to be at least twenty. She was, for all points and purposes, a perpetual five-year-old. Dean tried to avoid her when he could, entertain her when he couldn't. He found out she was Ellen's daughter; Ellen, who brought lunch up to him on the weekends. Still, he didn't get a name.

Not long after he started going there, Gordon did. He bothered to get Gordon's name because Gordon understood. It was a rare thing to find, so Dean went with it.

Thirty minutes into their first conversation, Gordon looked him in the eye and said, "My sister was a vampire."

Dean was about to open his mouth and say that he and his brother could catch her, find some way to cure her or... take care of her, if needed, but Gordon beat him to it.

"Don't worry about it," he said, still staring at Dean. It was unnerving, his intense stare, the whites of his eyes a pale yellow. "I killed her."

The chills that ran up Dean's spine weren't completely unfounded.

*

They check in at this motel on a lake. Dean doesn't know why Sam chose this particular motel, but he hasn't been in control of the car for a while now and they're both so exhausted that it doesn't matter.

The town they'd left, about two states away, had had a Kelpie problem. They've taken care of it now, but their clothes still haven't dried out and Dean's touchy about the upholstery. Plus, they smell, and in the dead of January with the heater on in the car and no circulation of fresh air, the car is going to smell of dead Kelpie for days. Wonderful.

As soon as they get inside, Dean peels off all the wet clothes and changes, doesn't bother taking a shower before falling into the nearest bed. Sam's milling about the room in a similar half-alive fashion, throwing clothes and bags around in the dark. He doesn't bother waiting for Sam to fall asleep first; they're safe, now. Unless there's another Kelpie in _this_ lake (which would be their luck, but it's highly unlikely), Sam isn't going to get eaten by anything in the short time before he falls asleep as well.

So Dean rolls over and buries his face in the scratchy pillow, asleep before the springs in the other bed even creak.

When he wakes up some time later, it's to warm liquid dripping on his face. He groans a little and goes to turn over, but when the dripping doesn't stop he opens his eyes, fully prepared to either go to the office and demand some sort of compensation for the leaky ceiling or climb over into bed with Sam – but then he looks up.

He opens his mouth to scream, or curse, or something, but no sound comes out. His throat works, silently, but there isn't a sound in the world that could justify this. Cold, slick fear rises up, chokes him, and while he's gasping in air the taste and smell of sulfur is everywhere.

Dean gazes up into Sam's horror-stricken face. His eyes are wide and his torso is slashed open. Dean physically shrinks back from the image, tries to force himself to wake up, but he isn't dreaming.

In the half-second before fire erupts around Sam's body, Dean looks up again and meets Sam's eyes. He's still alive somehow, still _there_ and looking at him with the softest, most pitying expression Dean's ever seen him wear. Dean digs up his voice and somehow manages to choke out, "I'm sorry," before the noise is deafening.

Smoke is everywhere. Dean grabs the bag nearest the door and makes it out before the room is entirely engulfed, breaking through the thin wooden door and hitting the instant cold of the night air. Like being doused in a bucket of water, Dean overcomes his momentary horror and comes to his senses.

He can't leave Sam like this. He can't… there's still time. Dropping the bag beside the car, he rushes back into the room.

But whatever was left of his brother is gone now. Ash is everywhere, flame licking at the edges of the ceiling. The space just above his bed, where Sam was, is entirely burnt through. The stars twinkle above unassumingly as the thick column of black smoke reaches to the moon.

It's too late. It's too fucking late and sulfur is burning everywhere, and he can feel the spots of Sam's blood still on his face sizzling from the heat.

This… this can't be. Sam can't leave him. Sam wouldn't, not again.

He can't speak. The smoke is too thick and he can't breathe, but his knees buckle and he can't run either. He sinks slowly to the ash-filled carpet and kneels there as white leaks in around the edges of his vision. He's crying, tears burning down his cheeks, and he distantly feels someone pull him back into the night air before he loses consciousness.

*

He woke alone, surrounded by silence. In the moment before he fully came back to himself, Sam's pitying, horrified face burned itself into his brain until it became transposed, inverted. When he blinked, the image flashed before his eyes.

"Sammy," he muttered to the room, and his voice echoed back to him. And then, as loud as his lungs would allow, "Sammy!"

When a few moments had passed and there was no answer (and he was expecting one, god. He had to tell Sam, had to see Sam. Sam couldn't die. He'd be here today like always. Just a bad dream), he slowly sat up. His head spun, but he paid it no mind as his feet hit the cold tile floor. He crossed to the door and banged on it a few times.

Dean was still beating the door down when the nurse came by.

She opened it a crack and asked him kindly to step back into the room. When he didn't comply, she tried to wedge herself in between the door and the frame.

"Let me see my brother. I need to talk to Sam, please," he said, voice raised, as she laid a hand on his arm and led him back to the bed.

"Shh, it's okay. Your brother will be here today like always. It's only a few more hours." She kept talking, voice smooth, trying to soothe him, but he yanked his arm back.

"You don't understand. Sam, he's…"

But he couldn't bring himself to say it. She left the door open. Quickly, flicking his gaze between where she was and the open door, he decided. She wouldn't be able to catch him in time, wouldn't be able to stop him even if she did. He bolted, sliding easily out the open door.

He paused a moment once he was out in the hall, looking right and left. He knew he'd been here before but couldn't remember which way would take him out, so he picked left and started along the corridor.

It wasn't more than a few feet before he ran into another nurse.

"What are you doing out of your room? Come on, let's get you back…"

The other nurse was close behind, pursuing. Dean shouldered past the second nurse and on down the hall, all but running at the sound of their calls. He had to find a phone, had to get outside and find some way home. Maybe it was just a nightmare and Sam was alive. It could be a vision, like Sam had sometimes. But he…

And that's when security showed.

There were two of them; an older man and a taller female, both in the standard black uniform with guns strapped to their belts. The woman was blonde, eyes narrowed as she looked at him. The older man's gaze was just as unfriendly, but he held the leashes of several large dogs in his hand. They snarled and snapped at him, and Dean took a step back.

_Sammy._

They closed in on him, trying to wrangle him back to his room.

Dean fought their grasps. With nails and teeth and fists and feet, he flailed and dodged and struggled to get away. One of the nurses snuck up behind him and tried to restrain him, but she wasn't qualified and he pushed her away easily.

Somewhere in the haze, someone had pulled out a needle. There was a sharp, stabbing pain as it entered the vein in his neck, but he couldn't think about it. Sam, he had to… had to get away. Had to make them let him go. His brother needed him and he wasn't going to let a group of demons stop him from getting to him.

And then the drugs took affect. It started with a slow loss of control, like the air being let out of all of his limbs at once. Everyone stepped back abruptly, let him crumble to the cold tile of the floor. He whimpered and then was still.

The nurses exchanged glances with each other, with the security guards. "I think we need to call Doctor Singer," Nurse Talbot said. "I think he needs to know."

*

Sam waited by the nurse's station, but no one came to collect him. He leaned against the counter for what felt like hours, itchy with anticipation, and only then did Doctor Singer emerge from a room far down the hall.

Sam hoped it wasn't Dean's room.

Before the man was even at a decent distance, Sam called, "Doctor, is he…?"

"He's fine, Sam," the doctor replied, rubbing his temples. "He… got a little worse, today. He got out of his room and was dead-set on finding you. We had to sedate him – I'm sorry, I know these things are usually approved by the family first, but he was violent."

Sam's eyes widened. "Does this mean he's going to… stay worse?"

Doctor Singer sighed. "I don't know. It varies from case to case. He could be like he was yesterday or he could stay this way. We'd have to move him, but. I can't tell you. I do know that today might not be the best for visiting, though. I know how much you both look forward to the weekends, but he's not stable enough this time." The man actually looked regretful. Sam lowered his eyes.

"I see," Sam said, resisting the urge to bury his hands in his pockets and sulk. If Dean was that set on seeing him, how could the doctors say that he'd be better off staying away? "Doctor…" he started, trailing off as the man looks at him expectantly. "I mean. I'm not a doctor or anything, but if he was that desperate to get to me, maybe it's better if I do see him?"

"Again, I apologize. There's no guarantee that would work. We can't risk you getting hurt and with his fragile mental state… there's no knowing what he's thinking."

"I'll let you know if anything's changed," the doctor smiled and Sam returned it somewhat weakly.

"Thanks," Sam added, turning back to the corridor where the elevators waited. He didn't like it, didn't like the doctors calling his brother fragile… Dean was anything but fragile. And he needed Sam, maybe more than he ever had before.

*

Dean wove in and out of consciousness for hours afterwards. He couldn't move his limbs, could barely coordinate his mouth, but it was always the same.

The doctor stayed in the room and took notes.

At first it was "Sammy can't die," which he tried to sooth with soft words that had no effect. The next time, he begged for information. "How's Sam? Is he okay? Is he here?"

Doctor Singer was torn. He wanted to assure his patient that his brother was fine, but at the same time… he didn't know what Dean imagined happened. If he messed with the delicate balance, even on something that was clearly distressing him, he might make it even worse.

"It's okay, Dean. Stop fighting it. Let it take hold and go to sleep, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Dean made a muffled sound and didn't wake up again for almost a day.

*

White fades to black and Dean's staring up at the night sky. Dotted with stars, spread of thick, oily smoke, and the smell of burning flesh.

He's wrapped in a thick blanket, courtesy of the fire department. Dean stays there for a moment, wondering why he's on the ground. A firefighter steps over, boot just beside his head on the freezing asphalt, and looks down at him.

"I'm sorry for your loss," The man says, and his eyes are pitying. Pitying, like Sam's before the fire took him, before the _Demon_ took him.

There's a sharp pain in Dean's chest as he sits up; too much smoke inhalation, shock settling in, warning him not to. The firefighter's hand is on his shoulder, bracing him, telling him to lie back down.

But he breaks the man's grip and struggles to his feet, head spinning. There are two of everything swimming before his eyes; two smoking buildings, two ambulances, two fire trucks…

Sam's body is in that ambulance. Or, one of them. Dean grunts and stumbles forward, grasping for something to hold on to.

When his vision focuses, he realizes he's leaning on the Impala. She's cold, metal close to sticking to the pads of his fingers as he pulls them away slightly, but then he lets his full weight fall against her. She doesn't creak, doesn't protest, and Dean looks out over her trunk and sees the straight line created where the ambulance and fire truck are backed together.

It's just enough space to get out.

He has an idea.

He feels around for the car keys, before remembering that he isn't wearing his jacket and he doesn't actually have them. He allows himself to panic for half a minute, but it doesn't fucking matter. Not really. So he lost Dad's jacket and the Impala's keys. He lost _Sam_.

Something more than the smoke makes Dean's chest tighten. He knows, without having to think about it, what he has to do.

It's a calm acceptance, not a raging passion to get it done. There's no urgency. Just an overwhelming need to finish it. He can't live like this; in the past few hours, last few minutes even, the world has ceased to make any sort of sense.

Mechanically, he opens the door and, despite the fireman's protests, reaches under the dash. Moments later, the engine springs to life and Dean closes the door.

The fireman is trying to flag him down, warn him not to leave, they need names, an ID on the body… but Dean's already gone. He reverses out of the parking spot and just barely scrapes between the ambulance and the fire truck, guns it and is speeding away from the motel before Sam's body is even cold.

He's guided to the first crossroads he finds by nothing but instinct and an inborn urging. Something buried deep and not accessible. He knows, just like knows what he has to do.

And when he gets there, he moves completely on autopilot. Gathering things, dumping them into the first box he can find – it's an ammo box, ironically enough – digging a hole with his bare hands until his fingernails bleed. He packs the dirt over the top of the box, stands up and looks around.

The demon is standing right behind him when he turns.

"Hello, Dean," he purrs, eyes flickering red and gazing at Dean like he hasn't seen anything so delicious in a long time. "Fancy seeing you here."

His pride is gone, stripped away and burned. He wants nothing more than to drop to his knees and beg, and it's staggering now that the weight of his grief is crashing down on him. "Please," he croaks, hoarsely. The smoke is in his voice, ripping his throat raw, but it's something that can be taken care of later.

Dean's breath comes in sharp, ragged pants because his lungs don't want to compress, but he stays upright. "Please," he says again, on the end of a cough.

The demon tsks. "You're going to have to tell me what you want, Winchester. Your mind is such a scary place to be. I'd hate to have to pick through it to get to the answer. Why don't you just tell me and let's be on with it?"

He very deliberately doesn't flare at the words. "I want my brother back."

"Ah," the demon laughs. "That would be it, wouldn't it? And what, pray tell, are you willing to give me for him?"

His only bargaining chip. Dean just hopes it isn't as tattered as he thinks it is. He straightens, bites back the cough that threatens to burst from him, and looks the demon coolly in the eye. "My soul."

The other scoffs. "Yeah, okay. Try another one, mate. That isn't going to get you very long at all, even if I am feeling generous."

"Please," he starts again, knees wobbling as they threaten to buckle. "Please, you have to… I don't even want ten years."

The demon looks like he's considering. Calculating. "Exactly how short a span would you accept?" Like it really matters. Dean knows he'll take whatever he can get at this point, just needs his brother back the same way he needs his lungs to start functioning right again. Like oxygen.

He'd accept a week at this point, but he isn't going to say that. Some stern, half-tuned voice that sounds suspiciously like his father tells him he can't say that.

"One year. Give me one year and then you can have me forever."

All humor is gone from the demon's red eyes. He thinks about it, really thinks about it, and something that might be hope flutters dangerously in Dean's stomach.

"One condition," the demon says, after an eternity. "I'll give you one year under one condition. You can't get out of it. I know how resourceful you Winchesters are; if I don't do this, you're just going to wriggle away from me. So. One year and you can't find a way out of it. You find a way out of it, try to end your contract before this time next year, and Sam's dead again."

Dean chokes, coughs so hard he doubles over, hands braced on knees that barely want to support him.

"Yeah," he wheezes, when he's done. "Yeah, I'll take it." Tears threaten to well up behind his eyes, but he fights them down because he still has his dignity. He has his dignity and now he has Sam, and that's all he really needs.

The demon draws closer, licks his lips, and Dean leans in without a second thought.

He's exhausted, but he tries to give as good as he gets. The demon is relentless, bites and draws blood, and Dean's barely had time to taste the metallic feedback in the other's mouth before he pulls back.

"You taste like smoke," the demon says cheerfully.


	3. Part Two

***

Dean spent the entire week confined to his room. In his 'vision' journal, he wrote about it – about Sam's death, about his deal, and started counting down days.

Day Number One through Day Number Eight were spent in much the same way.

But Sam didn't call. He asked the nurses, but they hadn't heard. He didn't know if it worked, or if the demon was just toying with him. He was constantly on edge, pacing around the room, until Saturday finally rolled around and the nurse knocked on the door.

Sam was right behind her.

Dean didn't wait until the nurse left; he could care less, because his brother had left him, was ash and gone and he was _there_ now, and it was because of Dean. He pulled Sam into a bone-crushing hug, so tight the nurse hovered uneasily, as if she was waiting for more violence. But she didn't understand. In that moment, the hospital could have burned down around them and Dean wouldn't care so long as Sam was safe.

When he finally drew back, long after the door closed, Sam eyed him. Somewhere between wary and startled, and Dean didn't know how to classify that gaze. It wasn't anything close to the pity he had last seen on Sam's face.

"They told me you had a pretty bad week," he said, cautiously. Softly, like Dean might break if he spoke too loudly.

"Well, yeah," Dean returned, slightly confused because Sam should have understood this at least. It took another moment to process that maybe... maybe Sam didn't remember that he died. Maybe he didn't remember the fire. And that was probably better, so he amended, "But you're here now, so it's okay."

Sam smiled, stroking his cheek. "God, I was so worried about you."

Even as Dean leaned into the touch, he felt dirty. He wanted to tell Sam, had to, had to say something. Because Sam shouldn't have been the one worrying. And another, smaller part of him wanted to lie, because everything wasn't going to be okay.

But he had a responsibility to make sure Sam was okay, and that meant not telling him. If Dean told him, he'd go look for a way out of it, which would take them right back to square one. Better to let him think that everything was fine.

*

When Sam got home, tired from yet another Saturday spent discussing ghosts and werewolves between orgasms, John was waiting. He was oddly on-edge, most likely worried about Dean, and looked expectantly at Sam the moment he flopped down in the nearest living room chair.

"He's fine. Doctor Singer says he hasn't had any violent relapses since last week, so whatever was troubling him was probably temporary."

John instantly relaxed and breathed out a sigh of relief. This seemingly misplaced sound bothered Sam in some distant, tired way he couldn't describe. If Dad wasn't going to go visit Dean, if he wasn't interested enough in his welfare to go see him on his days off, then why did he worry about him so much?

"You know," Sam started out, softly. "If you'd go visit him once and a while, you'd be able to see for yourself."

"And you know why I don't." His reply was fast, a little too fast for Sam's liking.

"He... you realize he isn't coming out of there, right? I've spoken with the doctor and things aren't going to get better. It's continuous. If you don't get over it and go now, Dean might not be there by the time you get around to it." He hadn't realized his voice was getting steadily louder until he was done, and by then it was too late to reign it in. He was spinning, and fast. Before it got out of hand, before he allowed the careful control he'd built get too far out of his reach, he quieted and gathered himself.

A stretched, uneasy tension filled the air in the small living room. Enough elasticity to snap back in both their faces, but neither of them stretched it more than strictly necessary. In that moment, Sam thought, they were more alike than ever.  
Two months ago, he'd never have thought he'd come to that realization. Two months ago, he'd never have thought he'd be here again. The best-laid plans of mice and men, indeed.

Of course, two months ago he'd never have thought he'd be fucking his brother. Who was in an institution for the acutely insane.

Things changed, and Sam was tired.

"Leave it, Sam." John finally let it fall, stood, and made his way upstairs. End of conversation. Sam followed and lay in the dark of his bedroom until he was sure John was asleep, then crept to the dresser and dug around for the phone.

*

Day Number Eleven through Day Number Fifteen were spent isolated. Because of his recent outburst, Dean wasn't allowed to go out to the cafeteria, or down to the rec room. He'd asked and received no answer as to when he'd be able to start going again, so he paced between meals like a caged animal.

Worse, there was nothing to keep his mind busy. All he could do all day was eat, anticipate Sam's call, and think. And that was the most dangerous part, thinking. Because then he began second-guessing himself.

If Sam knew about his Deal, maybe he could prepare himself. When his day did come, the suddenness would be cruel. Sam would be completely blindsided and Dean wouldn't feel right leaving him as such. He was supposed to have Sam's back. It was his job. And Dean's impending death was just something else that was creeping up behind him.

He had no doubt that Sam wouldn't listen when told not to pursue any way to get out of it. But he had to try, because his brother deserved it. If he could do nothing else for him, he could do this.

So he waited and stewed, reconsidered and changed his mind again and again. But by the time Day Number Sixteen approached, he was determined.

As usual, the nurse left them alone. The door closed behind her with a soft click, slide of a lock in place, and Dean started before Sam had a chance to react.

"I have something to tell you." He was proud of himself; his voice didn't break and he didn't betray any kind of emotion. Off to a good start, then.

"Okay," Sam said, eyeing him cautiously, as he sat on the edge of the cot in the corner of the room. Same soft, breakable voice he'd taken to using lately. They always spoke to him like that here, like a child. He was almost fed up with it, now. He wished Sam, of all people, wouldn't talk to him like that.

Dean cleared his throat and started to pace. "You don't remember. I know you don't and that's okay. But you can't blame me. I couldn't…"

And here he had to stop, which annoyed him. He cleared his throat again, got rid of the waver in his voice, and started in again. "I couldn't keep going without you. I had to do this. But you can't blame me, okay? You can't."

"I won't blame you, Dean." Sam caught his arm as he passed, made him stop and turn and meet his eyes. Dean nearly stopped right there, nearly took everything back for the look in his brother's eyes. Then Sam continued, "What did you do?"

Dean looked down at the floor, scuffing his bare feet slightly against the tile, but Sam forced him to look up again. "Remember… remember what I told you about Crossroads demons?"

An achingly familiar acceptance made Sam's shoulders slump slightly. "Yeah, uh. They make deals, don't they? Ten years and whatever a person wants most for a soul to drag to Hell?"

He nods, stiffly. "You were dead, Sam." And his voice did break here; he had to pause to draw breath so he could continue. "You were gone and there was nothing else I could do."

Sam was stunned into silence by this. He didn't speak, just stared up at Dean with his eyes full of confusion, fear, pity. And it was this last that finally made Dean break.

He didn't cry, not like he'd expected to. Just dry sobs, wracking his entire body with the weight of what he'd done, the look in Sam's eyes, and maybe a little bit of shock.

Sam drew him into his arms like Dean used to do when he was upset. Regardless of his dignity, he sat on the cot next to his brother and let himself be held until the sobs faded into shudders.

Sam didn't know what to do with this situation. Dean… Dean thought he'd died? And that he'd basically sold his soul to the devil to bring him back.

Did he break character here and tell his brother it was a nightmare or something?

From what the doctor said, the best thing to do would be to play along. But it went against his better judgment. How did you play along with something like this, anyway?  
He settled for stroking Dean's back until he calmed, telling himself not to think of how the Dean he was holding was so different from the stronger, arrogant, self-sufficient version he once was.

"I'm not gonna let you die," he said, hoping to take the middle route between the two options. "There's gotta be a way out of it—"

"You can't," Dean croaks, and even if he hasn't actually cried, his voice is wrecked. "There is no way out of it and you have to promise me you won't look for one. You're gonna have to let me die, Sammy."

He couldn't make that promise. Not ever. Because yeah, there was no Deal, but if he promised and then tried to prevent Dean from dying (_oh, god, how's he going to do it? He's just going to… don't think about it._), he'd still be lying. He'd never been very good at lying to Dean, except for one memorable occasion when he told Dean he didn't want this thing between them. He'd been convincing then, and look where they'd ended up.

One lie always led to another. "Yeah," Sam said, "Okay." But he couldn't bring himself to voice what he was promising, because that would make it real.

Thing was, he didn't know which part of his brother he was making the promise to; the physical being, which was still mostly his, or his mind and who Dean thought he (they) were there; all the secrets of the supernatural at their fingertips and the firepower to get rid of them all.

He'd wished to understand before. He'd wished to have just some gateway into his brother's bizarre second reality. But never before had he wished he were the Sam that Dean, in his current state, believed him to be.

*

As soon as visiting hours were over, Sam made his way down to the first-floor lobby and Doctor Singer's office. He knew then what he had to do, whether he liked it or not. He'd never liked discussing Dean's affliction with anyone, but with his doctor… it was kind of mandatory. And something like this shouldn't go undocumented, in case his brother took a turn for the worst.

He knocked lightly on the door and was asked to come in. Not that he expected anything less, but he was relieved that the doctor was still here so late.

"Sam," Doctor Singer smiled and gestured for him to take one of the chairs opposite his desk. There were files piled everywhere; on the lounge, all over the desktop, in every chair and on nearly every spot of available floor. A small path was cleared, for which Sam was grateful, but he couldn't help wondering how the doctor even found things in here.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said without preamble. "About Dean. He's been saying some strange things lately."

"What kind of strange things?" Doctor Singer asked, sitting straighter in his chair and leaning forward, automatically in doctor-mode.

"I think he's losing a little more of his reality. I mean, now he thinks that I died last weekend and he… made a Deal with a demon to bring me back. He thinks he's only got a set amount of time to live."

The doctor eyed him sharply, before reaching for a pen and digging around in the charts scattered everywhere to find Dean's. He made notes there, alongside pages and pages of notes already in the folder. "This isn't good," he mumbled as he wrote. "That's a different type of psychosis, now."

Sam watched him, expectant. When a few moments ticked by and the doctor didn't elaborate, he prodded, "What do you mean, a different type of psychosis?"

"He's always had a kind of delusional psychosis, but it's almost unlike any other case I've seen. There are two types of delusional psychosis; one which is completely random and doesn't have anything to do with normal mental process. The second is usually based on some underlying situation, or the person's background. Your brother hovers somewhere between them. His delusions aren't entirely unfounded, but they aren't always focused on something in his real life, either.

"But now he believes he's only got a set amount of time to live, which deals with something like manic depressive disorder. But you've said that he showed no signs of being bipolar before, right?"

Sam shook his head, somewhat dazedly. He was trying to take mental notes on everything the doctor was saying, but he was rattling off too fast and he only caught fragments.

"So it's not like that at all," Doctor Singer continued. "Might be something completely different. I'd have to dig around a little more, read some more reports about that type of thing."

"The important thing isn't diagnosing it," Sam reminded him. "So he's… is he going to be suicidal? If he is, that's the important thing. Preventing it."

The doctor looked up, slightly startled, and put down his pen. "You're right. I'm not sure he'll try to… do it, but he might. We should have him moved to somewhere where he can be more closely monitored."

Sam interrupted that train of thought before it got started. "I don't think that's a good idea. Maybe take all of the sharp things out of his room, things that can be used as weapons? He can't… do that if there isn't anything to do it with."

"Well, I'd say we have some time," the doctor said, closing Dean's chart and pushing it away as he stood and stretched. "We'll think of something that'll keep him stabilized. I don't like the way he changes so fast."

"Me either," Sam muttered, standing as well. He shook the doctor's hand, made some excuse about needing to get home before their father worried, and left the office as quickly as possible.

It was raining outside. On the swift walk back to the car, Sam allowed himself a few minutes to think. About what he was going to say, about how the next weeks were going to pan out. He had to get over the shock. He had to keep reminding himself that there was no Deal, that it was all in Dean's head.

Though, after the shock wore off, he was a little touched by his brother's conviction. Dean would go to Hell forever just so Sam could live a few more decades on Earth. Even if it wasn't real, it meant something.

*

Sam went to the library every time he had a free moment. Between working for his father most of the day and calling Dean at night, he only had a few hours. But even at that, he was already compiling his own research. Lists and lists of books covering Dean's particular psychosis, notes and random facts jotted down from those he could find in the building. Articles from medical journals, anything and everything he could find on the internet – he liked to think he could help, even if Doctor Singer was the one with the degree.

Sam apparently influenced Dean more than he thought he did. That was the root of all of this, after all. And because of that, because of this secret connection, he might just have a little bit better a grasp on the situation than the doctor did.

Dean wasn't any different during their nightly phone sessions. He never knew which version of his brother he was talking to until he said something that could be attributed one way or another, but that was normal. Sam was used to it.

But at the core, no matter which background his brother chose to employ at any given moment, he was still _Dean_. And that alone was reason enough to spend his hours dedicated to understanding him and the world he'd created.

He also took to keeping a separate log of urban legends and supernatural creatures. The librarians cast him odd looks when he sat there with piles of fairy tale books, but this was just another thing Sam could do to help himself understand.

The doctor called on Friday night as he was reviewing his notes for the umpteenth time. He wanted to keep things as normal as possible – play like nothing was wrong, maybe lead Dean away from thinking about what he'd thought he'd done. Maybe by doing it this way, they'd eventually make Dean forget.

Everything dangerous had been removed from the room. It was the first step; Sam expected it, suggested it, but it didn't keep him from shaking when he actually heard it. Hearing it made it real, and all of this was so painfully surreal that he sometimes wished he'd just wake up and get back to being a grieving college dropout with a thing for his big brother that was never going to come to anything.

If he had a second chance, he'd deny it without hesitation. As much as he wanted it, as convinced as he was that, at least while he was sane, Dean was doing it for him… he'd stop it all.

Nothing was different on Saturday morning. Sam stuck to the normal routine as closely as possible, watched his brother like a hawk, but nothing was out of the ordinary. At the end of the day, he stopped by Doctor Singer's office. Once the door was shut, he lingered near the doorway; he didn't need to be there long.

"He's not any different," Sam said, hands jammed in his pockets. "He hasn't said anything. Do you think…"

"That it was a phase?" The doctor finished, looking up for the first time. "Unlikely. As much as he believes in this – and I've had long sessions discussing his alternate history with him – he may be ignoring it. Does it seem like something your brother would do, before?"

Sam had to swallow down the anxious laughter threatening to bubble out of him. Trust Dean to have the same stupid defense mechanisms no matter what his mental state. "Yeah."

"There's really no way to tell, though. Just play it safe, like nothing's out of the ordinary. With any luck, he'll forget."

As Sam shut the office door behind him, taking the familiar path over grained tile to the front door, he realized how much he hated hospitals and doctors. Doctor Singer might think he's doing what's best, but Sam didn't believe he really had Dean's best interests at heart. He'd just never seen a similar case – like his brother was an experiment, a new breed of fish being observed through thick aquarium glass.

*

He kept looking for things to change, and they didn't come up. Every weekend he'd go to Doctor Singer's office after he was done visiting Dean, and every weekend he got the same advice: play it safe.

Sam was beginning to think that maybe the doctor was more attuned to this Dean than he was. It could have been a phase, something passing through the separate world hidden behind Dean's eyes that manifested itself differently here. But he didn't mention it, and Sam didn't ask.

October turned into November, wearing on endlessly, and they wandered through a fog that was as hostile, dense, as the snow that was slowly becoming a regular, wintry fixture. Every once in a while, Dean would ask if he'd found any cases, and Sam would grasp for something out of the blue, something he'd read about.

He was glad, now, that he'd researched them. Dean asked more frequently and Sam prided himself on being able to come out with a satisfying answer every time.

The next mention Dean even made of his alleged Deal was sometime around Thanksgiving. They'd collapsed onto the cot, spent and sticky. In the beginning, Sam had been paranoid about the nurses walking in to check, but after months (was it months, now?) of tip-toeing around like teenagers, he had their schedule memorized.

So he allowed himself this, when he could get it. Because he was beginning to realize that what he'd told his father was true – Dean was only going to get worse. He wasn't getting out, ever, and this was the only way he was ever going to be able to have it.

"This is what you're gonna remember, right?" Dean asked, hands still tangled in Sam's hair, stroking his scalp.

Just like that, the post-coital bliss was swept away. Cold, hard realization settled in his stomach; they hadn't won this war. Ignoring it wasn't going to make it go away. Dean remembered.

"Why wouldn't I?" He replied, carefully keeping his voice as non-committal as possible. How did… how long did Dean think he had?

"This," Dean repeated. His eyes were fixed on the same spot on the ceiling, deliberately not looking. But he didn't elaborate on what he'd remember instead. Sam improvised, battling down a sigh.

"Yeah, Dean. This."

Sam didn't tell Doctor Singer. He probably should have, but some things were best kept buried.

*

Christmas approached. Dean didn't have a calendar in his room, but he guessed by how the world looked through his small window. There were bars on it, of course, but around them he could see the snow lying thick on the ground. Pressing his fingers to the glass, he could feel just a little of that cold.

The little clouds of mist that formed around his fingertips faded, but the cold lingered on his skin.

They didn't let him out anymore. Bobby came by more frequently, asked him more questions, but never answered any of his. Dean was beginning to feel like a prisoner; after months of confinement, the feeling should have come earlier. He wondered why Sam let them keep him so long – what particular creature was behind this?

Obviously something powerful, powerful enough to hold Sam in its sway.

"What's the date?" He asked, suddenly, during one of his sessions with Bobby. The doctor looked up, blinked, and checked his watch.

"December Fourteenth."

Dean considered. "What do you all do for Christmas around here?"

"Well," Bobby started, paused, and then continued. "Since you've been cooperative for a while, I'd say we could probably arrange for you to go home for a few days. I was going to wait and tell your brother when he got here, but…"

Immediately, he started planning. When the doctor left for the day, Dean lay back and stared at the sliver of white sky he could see through the window.

The car, first. They'd find some abandoned place, somewhere with no chance of getting caught, and he'd spread Sam out over the hood. All that tanned skin (less tanned, these days, but it'd still be beautiful) in contrast with the dark metal. It'd be cold, but Sam would beg for it anyway, flushed and writhing…

And afterwards, they'd go get actual food. Anything was better than the crap at this place – something greasy, or maybe they'd splurge and go for an actual diner. Later, he'd let Sam pound him into the mattress. An actual mattress, with actual creaky springs that would groan and protested with each thrust. They wouldn't have to clean up immediately afterwards. They could lay together all night if they wanted, sticky and gross.

He marked the date in his 'journal' and counted down the days.

*

Two days before Christmas Eve, the doctor called and gave him the news. Sam cleaned instead of going to the library; he wasn't sure what he was trying to prove, why he was trying to impress his brother of all people, but the compulsion to get all of the laundry done and the floors mopped wouldn't be ignored.

By the time he was done, the house was better-looking than he'd seen it in a while. His pride and happiness overrode the anxiety that was closer to the surface than ever, but it didn't stop him from worrying. When he was finished, when there was nothing else to do and nothing to keep him preoccupied, an irrational urgency rushed over and threatened to drag him under.

He found a deck of cards to occupy him and shuffled until his fingers ached.

When he went to get Dean, to pick him up from his prison and bring him home for a few days, it felt more like Christmas morning than Christmas Eve. Doctor Singer gave him a strict set of orders and numbers to call if anything happened. He shoved all of the papers into the back pocket of his jeans and accompanied the nurse to his brother's room.

His first thought when he saw Dean perched on the cot, awkward in clothes that weren't scrubs, was that he'd never seen his brother look happier. At least, not in a long time. His whole face lit up, split into one of the widest grins Sam'd ever seen, and he couldn't help but grin back.

Dean didn't have any personal effects here. Not that he'd ever had many personal effects, but it still deflated a little bit of Sam's happiness as he led the way back out to the car.

Outside, bleak sunlight reflected off the snow and made everything whiter than it was, but the pallor of Dean's skin was still unhealthy. His freckles stood out in stark relief; too many days without seeing the light of the sun without bars blocking the way had taken their toll.

A sudden onslaught of guilt, always heavy on his mind, and his good mood was slightly tarnished.

When his brother's eyes caught on the sleek black metal of the Impala where it was parked, Sam had to reconsider his earlier thoughts. This was surely that happiest Dean had ever been or looked; here, running his hands over her freezing body, appraising her with a keen eye. That, right there, was evidence enough for Sam that Dean shouldn't be locked up. He wasn't… violent, but the doctors insisted. If he could still look after the car, he could look after himself, strange delusions aside.

He knew the question that came next and swallowed the lump rising in his throat so he'd have the capacity to answer.

"Can I…?"

Sam wanted to avert his eyes, but that's Dean's trick. Instead, he met his brother's wide, hopeful gaze and shook his head. "Sorry, man. Doctor's orders."

If his brother wilted, it's only for a moment before he bounced back. Maybe he was expecting it. Either way, he happily climbed into the passenger side and settled back into the leather of the seat. He breathed deeply as if trying to inhale the moment, implant it for forever in case he never got to be here again, but the look of elation never faded.

It's times like these when he wished, honestly wished with everything he had, that he were the one that inherited this genetic insanity and not Dean.

But it's hopeless. He turned the key in the ignition and the happy sound that came from the other side of the car, tuned with the purring of the engine, made him smirk. "Do I need to give the two of you a minute alone?"

Sam got back on the main road before he glanced over. The look on Dean's face was a topic, heady mix of heat and purpose that chased all the shadows away, and Sam wished they were elsewhere.

"I think you need to find us someplace private," Dean's voice was low, husky. It sent thrills down Sam's spine, and before he could actually think about, he'd turned down a side road and headed in the direction of the abandoned warehouses on the edge of town.

And just that, the tenor or Dean's voice when placed back into a familiar setting, made hope flare somewhere deep. Maybe this is what he needed; to be himself again, not the shattered, refracted version that spent days alone in a stark, white room.

Sam found a place with busted-out windows and no sign of life, shifted the care into park and turned her off.

Dean was on him before he could draw breath to speak, pushing and pulling, tugging at his shirts and attacking his mouth before he had time to think. The key clattered to the floorboards somewhere between his feet, but he was too preoccupied to care.

His brother was a livewire in his hands even when he managed to stop actually tearing at Sam's clothes. He starts to remove them with fingers that are sure, still strong after months of not being used the way they're supposed to. But the positioning was off. They wouldn't have a lot of room to maneuver here, so Sam braced his hands on Dean's shoulders and pushed gently.

Dean's eyes flew open, and Sam found his voice where it'd taken up residence on the floor with the car keys. "No room," he said and gestured to the back.

Before he'd even got his door open, before he'd given any assent, Dean was out the passenger side door and sliding into the creaking, ill-used leather of the backseat.

Sam followed, ditching his jacked in the front.

Even at that, as soon as he was in he was being pushed back against the closed door. Sam took a minute to shift and get his shoulders set against it while Dean rearranged his legs for him, impatient for contact. With one foot flat on the seat and the other thrown over, pressed as tight to the back of the front seat as it would go, Dean made a happy little sound and slid over between them.

His fingers flew back to Sam's buttons, lips finding Sam's throat and working at a spot there.

Dean wasn't usually this straightforward, at least not there. Sam recognized it for was; Dean needed control in this if he couldn't get it anywhere else. Frantic, fumbling and shaking, this was what Dean needed. While Sam could still give it to him, he would.

He batted Dean's hands out of the way and worked on his own shirts; in minutes, they were hanging over the seat and he was steadily working on Dean's.

Despite the sudden controlling urge, Dean didn't do this for himself. Instead, while Sam's hands were preoccupied, Dean let his own roam all over his brother's bare chest, raking his nails down Sam's sides and slipping just beneath the waistband of his jeans. He managed to get the button on his pants undone but struggled a bit with the zipper. Sam sped his pace to assist as quickly as possible.

Not exactly how he'd imagined the afternoon going, but he couldn't complain.

~*~

When they finally stumbled into the house, they still had before John got home. Sam had always been frustrated with the seriousness his father had for his work, and even though it was Christmas Eve he was grateful for once.

Dean looked around like the didn't know where they were. The rooms that should have been so familiar and welcoming after the bland room of the institution didn't register as such; instead, they were just places. Just furniture, just curtains. Never mind that they were picked out by the one person Dean had the most in common with – their mother.

He guided his brother into the bathroom on the first floor, just to erase that lost look from his eyes. And when they'd both washed the evidence away and the water had turned ice-cold, he ventured upstairs to find them both clothes.

~*~

Sam heard John's truck approaching from halfway down the street. They were chopping vegetables in the kitchen, of all things; there was nothing in the doctor's orders about not allowing Dean to wield knives, though it should have probably been a given. Either way he was doing perfectly fine with it, Sam's nervousness aside.

He took a thirty-second inventory of absolutely everything that could make this bad – the backseat was clean, their clothes were in the washing machine – and settled back into dicing celery. It was mundane and didn't exactly distract him from how pale Dean's skin was against the deep red of his once-favorite flannel overshit, but… it was enough.

Enough, with the old, fuzzy stereo on the far counter warbling Led Zeppelin instead of Christmas carols, with pies sitting ready to be baked next to the stove, with the rumble of their father's truck rapidly approaching and the slow sound of his brother's breathing as his knife hit the chopping block with evenly-spaced thuds.

This was how it should have been. It could be, just for that day. Just that moment, and they'd go back to being screwed up again.

But it was worth it.

The idle cut off outside, and Sam heard the creak of the door opening. Dean abruptly looked up, staring at the place over the sink where a window would be if they had one. His knife dangled dangerously from his hand, not quite reaching the chopping block, and he frowned.

"Who's that?"

Just like that, the moment was gone. There was no way to even pretend to recover it then, and Sam very deliberately put the knife to the side of his own cutting board. "Dean, it's Dad."

Dean looked at him, something unreadable lurking in his eyes. The shadows were back, dancing in and out of sight. "It can't be," he said, incredibly sure of this. He looked at Sam like he was the one who was delusional.

The door creaked open. Sam saw Dean's fingers closed around the hilt of the knife a second too late, and before he could spring to stop him, John rounded the corner into the kitchen.

There was a long moment of tension thickening in the room; Sam could only watch, hanging back on the other side of the island, as they looked at each other.

A smile began to split John's face; acceptance or genuine happiness to have both of his sons in once place again, Sam couldn't tell. From where he was standing, he couldn't see the look on Dean's face and he was equally sure he didn't want to.

"Hello, Dean."

At the sound of his father's voice, Sam made his legs work. He crept around the island, eyes fixed on Dean's tight shoulders, and he was almost close enough to stop him when Dean lunged.

The blade of the knife, stainless steel and almost clean, caught light from one of the fluorescent and reflected it like some deadly beacon. He couldn't catch his brother, not as fast as he crossed the distance, and John was just standing there as the blade came down.

At the last moment, his reflexes kicked in and he grabbed Dean's wrist, forcing the blade of the knife away. Dean made a sound like a trapped animal, tried to twist and free himself, but John's hold was tighter and he struggled uselessly. Sam made it close enough to wrench the knife free and got hold of his brother's other wrist.

He twisted it behind Dean's back, quickly took his other from his father's now-lax grip and did the same. Dean tried to break free, tried to get away and get at John, but he was halfway across the room and Sam was somehow able to keep him restrained.

"The number… it's in the papers next to the phone. Call and they'll send someone…"

Even as he said the words, holding his brother as still as possible when he was as vigorous as a wildcat with the way he was twisting and pulling, he felt sick. They… it wasn't supposed to happen like this. He couldn't bring himself to process how they went from Christmas to attempted homicide, but Sam knew that Dean's purpose was just that.

John stared and finally moved, found the hall phone and dialed the hospital.

They were sending someone. They'd move Dean to a different floor, a different room where he could be monitored because it was his second violent relapse in six months.

There were no sirens on the ambulance. The only sounds that filled the house were _Kashmir_'s endless refrain.

~*~

Shapeshifter. Ghoul. Couldn't be a demon, because they'd burned John's body. Probably a ghoul.

But no matter what it was, something unholy had set out to torment him just a little more while they still could, while he was still topside and could still suffer as a human. They just couldn't wait to sink their claws into him.

Furiously, he wrote in the 'journal' Bobby had given him. The worst part, he thought, is that it had Sam convinced, completely convince that it was their father. He'd have to talk to Sam the next time he was allowed to see him.

But it was weeks before they allowed Sam in to see him.

In the beginning, he asked, but from all around jet-black eyes stared at him. Mocked him, silently, and he didn't have to hear them to know what they were saying.

It wasn't until he begged to see his brother, would have gone down on his knees if they didn't have him strapped down, that they actually let him in.

~*~

Their nightly phone calls had stopped. Now that they were out of the jurisdiction of Missouri's graveyard shifts, Sam didn't bother calling.

They kept Dean in a room with windows on all sides. Shatterproof, just in case he managed to break loose of the restraints binding him to the table. But looking at them, even from his limited vantage point… Dean wouldn't be able to break loose.

This was his fault. Over the past month – four weeks, four impossibly long weeks, and he didn't even know what was going on in his head anymore, let alone Dean's – it was a constant mantra. Ugly things lurking, shadows hulking in the once-beautiful, now-shattered green of his brother's eyes, and Dean didn't understand that they weren't of his own making.

No, all of this was Sam's.

He had to check all of his personal belongings into the nurse's station before he was allowed in, past a double-locked security door with an alarm. There was a camera mounted in the corner of the room and Sam wondered what they did to high-security patients if this was just two floors down from where Dean had been last.

They allowed him out of his restraints for about thirty minutes a day and Doctor Singer had told him that Dean used this time to write down all of his dreams, all of the details of his false reality that he'd gathered in the night.

Something buried beneath the weight of the situation fractured. Didn't break, not yet, but was affected by cracks that appeared along the surface. Made it brittle. As he entered the room and heard the door shut and lock behind him, Dean just stared. He didn't say anything, didn't let any of his excitement (if he was feeling any) leak into his face.

As he drew closer, there was finally a sign of movement; Dean's fingers twitched. He gave himself away.

"Dean," Sam breathed, reaching out to touch his brother's hand lightly. "Dean, I'm here."

"No," Dean said, quicker than Sam expected. "You're not."

That fragile thing strained and started to splinter.

He shouldn't have stayed away for a month. Even if it was recommended, even if it probably wasn't safe. By doing so, and not speaking or seeing him for longer than he'd ever done before (except college, but that was different), he'd allowed Dean to sink further into his own mind.

"Yeah, man. It's me." What else could he say? He didn't know what illusion his brother had imparted this time, what explanation he'd made up to explain his sudden absence. It probably wasn't a smart move to continue like this, but it was the only way he could know for sure what was going on. "What'd they do to you?"

Tears welled up in Dean's eyes even as he visibly fought them; they created tracks down his cheeks where he was unable to wipe them away and soaked into the collar of the thin, uniform t-shirt. "They're just going to wake me up and you'll be gone."

Over the last few months, he'd seen his brother stripped away. Bit by bit, layer by layer, all of him exposed because of this crazy, hereditary disease. But never like this, never this vulnerable and needy and completely, utterly lost.

He didn't realize he'd dropped his eyes until he had to force himself to look up again. The depth of the hurt written on Dean's face, the unmasked despair, shook Sam down to his bones. That fragile thing splintered and broke loose, and he barely felt the tears rolling down his own cheeks and only then because his vision was blurred.

All pretense of keeping this up was gone.

He leaned his forehead against the side of the stiff, uncomfortable mattress near his brother's hand and curled in on himself. He only breathed because it was instinct; otherwise, he let everything go that he'd been holding close to himself for so, so long. His shoulders shook with sobs, deep, wracking movements that strained nearly all of his muscles in an attempt to shell him of this, to get it away as fast as possible.

When it was over, when he could breathe again without sucking in too much air and choking, the mattress was soaked through with it. Dean's hand was tangled in his hair, fingers strong and still sure as ever as he tried to comfort him the only way he could with his limited movement. Even then, short strokes were cut off abruptly as he had to adjust and fall back to the same spot again.

Dean wasn't shaking.

As always, this was how it was. Dean was always there for him, always strong and steadfast when he needed him to be. Sam tried to reciprocate the same kind of comfort and always ended up falling flat, or screwing up so catastrophically that he caused… something like this. It was another fact of life, something he'd learned to live with, but that didn't stop him from striving to be just like Dean in every way, down to never talking about anything that would eventually hurt.

But it didn't work.

He felt raw, like his skin was too loose and he was flailing in it. Sam couldn't be the person his brother needed, couldn't even act like it.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice sounded just as raw as he felt.

Again he looked up when he probably shouldn't have, but there was something else; the openness was gone, locked away behind Dean's ironclad walls. Ironic how they were as strong as always, even now. But in the place of that bared look was a dark, twisted pity that was as unnerving as it was unwavering.

"I told you there was no way out," Dean said, and it took Sam a moment to figure out what he was talking about. "And I told you not to look, and you didn't believe me."

Here he paused, fingers still working in the little of Sam's hair he could still reach.

"It's okay, Sam. It was my choice and I'm okay with it."

Sam rested his cheek in the wetness he'd created moments before and closed his eyes. Dean… his Dean, the one who belonged in this universe, where there were no demons or other evil creatures outside of bedtimes stories… he was gone. Completely out of touch with him.

If he hadn't already drained himself of everything he had, he'd have cried again. He could feel it reaching for him, the tug behind his eyes and the aching pull at his stomach, but tears didn't come.

Funny, how even when you're expecting something, even when you have months and months of time to expect it and plan for it… you can't really prepare yourself for something like this.

Dean was right here, fingers stroking his scalp and chest rising and falling inches from his head, but he was miles away. And even then, the brother who'd taught him how to tie his shoes, who'd told him stories about their mother as a child, the man who'd taught him more than anyone else… he was gone now, and even if he'd been slipping for a while the finality of that knowledge twisted the shards of that shattered thing and embedded them in his lungs.

~*~

There's something holding him down.

The surface he's laying on is almost comfortable, still too firm even with the light padding. It's just enough to drive him crazy. He tries to move his hands, but there's cold metal around his wrists and he can hardly twist them. Dean can feel the raw places forming.

He tries his feet and finds them held as well. After a few more seconds of useless squirming, panic sets in.

And then he remembers.

Black eyes. Everywhere shiny jet black eyes, dark as pitch and bottomless, staring, hovering. Everywhere.

He renews his struggles though he knows it won't help. Won't bring anyone to untie him. Mutely, he pleads to Sam. Wherever his brother is, he's got to come. Dean doesn't want to live out his last days in captivity.

Especially not by demons. Especially when he can't see Sam. Maybe he'd made an error in calculation and Hell was here earlier than he expected.

It certainly seems that way.

Struggling only makes them enjoy it more. Abruptly, he stops moving. The ceiling is a blank, grainy expanse. It feels like an operating table with the harsh spotlights, feels like he's drugged with the sluggish weight of not knowing where he is, whether he's alive or dead.

The door slides open and the nurse - not a nurse, a black-eyed monster - clicks the locks back into place from this side. Like she's trying to keep everyone else out, claim her kill. Her sneakers squeak on the floor as she strides toward where he lays.

Her smile is sickly.

And then, curiously enough, she undoes the bindings on his hands and feet. She helps him to sit up and rubs the life back into his fingers.

But he's unrestrained now. He could get out. If he is in Hell, there's no real way out. They'll just catch him and punish him. But if he's not... if he's not, he can find Sam and have at least a few more days. If he's even got days left.

When he's able to feel his fingers again, he flexes them a couple of times and then curls them into a fist.

She doesn't expect it and goes down hard with a thud on the black and white linoleum floor.

He stands, makes his way to the door slowly on shaky legs that don't want to hold him. Dean can barely stop shaking long enough to get the lock undone, and then he's running.

It's still shaky, and he almost falls a few times. The only thing that keeps him upright is the adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

He hasn't felt this alive in a long time.

Orderlies shrink back against the walls as their black eyes watch him pass, and he wonders why they're afraid. Nurses stand in his path but he pushes past them.

It's dark outside. He can see through the windows along the corridor. Noise is all around, a cacophonous blur that doesn't reach his ears.

Suddenly, he stops running. No conscious thought makes him stop, he just... does. Behind him, a man holds a syringe filled with clear liquid. Suddenly there's a half-circle of nurses and orderlies behind the man, and they're laughing.

Cruel mouths gaping wide, too wide for human faces. Air bubbles disperse as the man squeezes them out of the syringe, and Dean finds himself backing up slowly.

He connects solidly with the wall, with the cold glass of the window, and looks around wildly.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run and night pressing in from all sides; he can't breathe.

And without really thinking about it, again, no conscious thought, he takes a few steps away from the wall. The crowd tenses as one, but he hardly has time to wonder why before he hurls all of himself against the glass.

All of his weight, strength, and force of will hit the unyielding surface and makes it shatter.

The ground drops from beneath him. He's free-falling, stomach dropping as far as is possible. The ground, absent a half-second before, is rising up to meet him.

He doesn't feel the impact. Rather, the first thing he's aware of is the agony.

Because something broke.

Something broke and is broken and it fucking hurts.

He whimpers as he struggles to his feet. There are a thousand little nicks and cuts and gashes all over, but he ignores them. Dean clutches at his side, at the lightning bolts of pain shooting through his torso. A rib, a broken rib and his ankle won't hold him.

Dean limps as quickly as possible toward the line of trees in the distance. Every slight movement sends white-hot pokers to his insides, but he has to get away. Get to Sam. Sam'll fix it.

That's when the howling starts.

Dean knows, with a sudden, sickening clarity of thought, that it was today. Now. Why fucking now, when he's so close? He can taste it, taste the fresh air for the first time in what feels like years and he remembers the last time... Sam...

It can't be now.

He picks up his pace, crying out at every step, every shift of his weight, but the hounds keep baying. He tenses, waiting for it, but they carry on forever. Every step more mournful, deeper and more ferocious.

Until he reaches the line of trees. He reaches out, fingertips scraping the rough bark, the first rough thing he's felt in forever, and then the baying abruptly stops.

More agony. Scrap of claws, tear of teeth, hot and wet and _fuckfuckfuck_...

*  
The phone was ringing.

It cut through the house's nighttime silence. Sam heard it distantly and rolled over, deep in a restful sleep for once. He thought he heard John stumble down the hall; the ringing stopped, followed by a one-sided conversation he couldn't make out.

Regardless, he sank comfortably back into sleep.

And was awakened seconds later by his door banging open. Sam groaned and cracked one eye open.

"Sam, get up." John's voice was gruff, no-nonsense military growl, and he recognized it as an order. Sam sat up slowly, limbs still tingly with sleep, and blinked at him. "I need you in the car in five minutes."

And he strode out again, flicking the light on as an afterthought. Sam winced, eyes ill-adjusted to the sudden bright, grunted as he pulled back the covers and scanned the floor for clothes with half-lidded eyes.

*

It was as such that he found himself twenty minutes later; tousle-haired, rumpled, and alarmed.

John had driven in silence to the institution. Even as he was dying to ask, he remained silent as they waited for the doctor.

Something was wrong. Something had happened to Dean; maybe he struck out again, though he couldn't see how.

God, maybe he was missing. They wouldn't let him get out, would they?

As he gradually woke up, panic and worry overrode his sleep-haze and all sorts of ideas sprang forward.

But before he could get much farther, Doctor Singer called them into his office.

The doctor was rumpled as well and he eyed John oddly. He'd never met him, not that Sam could remember, but neither of them commented.

In fact, he was silent for so long that Sam finally snapped, driven by a crazed frustration. "What's going on with Dean?" He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but he needed to know, needed to stop his mind from jumping to so many outlandish conclusions. The truth couldn't be as bad.

Doctor Singer pulled a notepad from the inner pocket of his white coat and held it out to him. Sam blinked at it a moment, took it with shaking hands. "What's this?"

"It was your brother's. I encouraged him to write down all of his delusions; even when he was in the high-security room, he kept a running log of his other life."

John's eyes were haunted, plagued with a different kind of shadow, and Doctor Singer glanced between the two of them. Pitying.

"Doctor," Sam began, unalbe to keep his voice from shaking, "What happened?"

For a moment, he thought a blank stare would be his only answer. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice - any moment he would understand, and he didn't want to.

"Dean was again able to slip past the nurse who came to give him his break. Before we could sedate him, he… broke a window."

Sam sucked in a breath, even as it felt like his lungs were collapsing. He came closer to the dark precipice, hanging on the edge, hyperaware that the doctor wasn't telling him everything. John bowed his head, ready to accept just this, but Sam wasn't. Despite the plummet, he pushed the doctor to continue.

"And?"

If ever he needed something more concrete to confirm his suspicions, it was in the way the man couldn't meet his eyes.

"He was almost to the property line when the security dogs caught him."

No.

_No._

He hadn't realized he'd moved until he had the doctor back against the wall, hand wrapped around his throat.

"You're lying," he snarled. Later, he'd be surprised at himself. Just then, his vision was red and he didn't understand, harbored a sudden hatred for the doctor and the institution, for the stark white of everything, for the damn dogs that must've been painted red.

"Sam," John croaked, suddenly behind him with a restraining grip on his shoulder. "Sam, stop."

But the words hardly registered. His own blood pumped in his ears.

Doctor Singer was incredibly calm, placating, like Sam was one of his patients.

"He's not lying," John continued from somewhere very far away.

And it was these words that finally filtered through.

"Oh god," he loosened his grip, stepped back. "Oh god, no." The part of him that didn't fall off the edge of the world at the realization, swift and hard like a kick to the gut, crumbled in on itself.

He'd killed his brother.

He'd killed him and it was so fucking stupid. He'd let his stupid pride, his morals and the twisted _dirtywrong_ part of him deny it. He'd let himself believe that it couldn't be, that he didn't know how to show it.

He'd destroyed Dean. Just as those dogs had, only from the inside out. His particular disease was Sam's disease as well.

Everything clawed at his insides. Wanted out, cold and sharp, and he wanted to break it out of him.

He wanted to never feel again, because this guilt had suddenly become a critical part of who he was.

Epilogue  
It was almost spring. The last of winter's dead leaves sweep through the sparse grass, whispering to him.

_Murderer. You did this, all your fault._

The day they put Dean in the ground was quite possibly the coldest Sam's ever experienced. He's been told that you're supposed to be dead inside after something like this; hell, he'd felt dead inside when Jessica died. But this was nothing like that, and he was guilty for even comparing the two.

The wind blew, howled through the trees and flipped the pages of the Bible even as the Reverend read from it. Sam had the verses memorized, had them running on repeat over and over until he couldn't think in anything but prophets and numbers. But God was not merciful; His words didn't make him any less alive.

_Monster._

It seemed ridiculous to have Bible verses read at Dean's funeral. He wasn't remotely religious and he was convinced that he was going to Hell.

And then he ensured it. As much as Sam tried not to think about it, tried to lock it away like he'd always done to things particularly painful, his compartmentalizing skills wouldn't work. Refused, like all of the old avenues he used were gone. Shattered.

But the Reverend's voice wore on.

There were only a few people, and Dean would've wanted it this way.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Sam was supposed to die first. Sam was supposed to die first so he didn't have to be left to do this, to deliver a eulogy at his big brother's funeral.

He hadn't prepared any words. He didn't need any, not for this.

_Sinner._

When he was done, choked through the first good things that came to mind (left out all of the guilt even as it desperately wanted to get out), he stepped down.

Thin cables lowered the casket down into the ground. It had to be cold, down there. Down where Dean was. The cables that held him up didn't seem substantial enough.

John tossed in the first shovelful of dirt. Sam didn't look at his father. He doubted he could have seen anything with the low twilight, anyway. The wind picked up.  
As he averted his eyes from Dean's grave, his final resting place (god, didn't that sound permanent?), he caught the gaze of a woman standing back from the rest of the mourners.

She was clothed entirely in black, veiled, and only her eyes were visible. She resembled a black widow, with the ends of her veil and scarves wafting about her like smoke.

And her eyes were full of fire. Red, burning crimson like blood.

She beckoned with one finger, glowing irises calling him, drawing him in with the promise of _greater things_.

When he finally broke eye contact, he was the only one left. His brother's grave was covered over with a fresh mound of dirt, covered with flowers, and they were the only two left.

Still, she beckoned. Her voice, when it floated to him on the wind, was dark, brilliant and deceiving. "Your brother sent me. I can take you to him." Her expression never changed, but she began to walk away, picking a straight line through rows and rows of graves.

And he found himself following, through the night, guided by the fire in her eyes where it superimposed over the dark.

_fin_


End file.
